Ian

“Hunter,” a guard called as I exited my housing unit for breakfast then work at the Sierra Conservation Center sewing factory. “Can you do me a favor and consider celling with Dugan?”

My cellmate had enrolled in the Substance Abuse Program (SAP) as a condition for parole, so he’d recently moved to the SAP housing unit. Celling alone was bliss, but I knew it would end.

“I’ll have to speak with him.”

“Dugan is right out of Reception, he’s lost and needs schooling.”

“I’m working overtime for the next few weeks; can this wait til Sunday?”

“Let me know Monday.”

I knew Ian a bit, mostly hi and bye. Soft spoken, affable, good manners. Seemed good.

“Yes, yes,” Ian nodded on Sunday. “Omar’s crazy!”

Apparently, Omar used a marker to outline his TV sitting atop his locker, and he’d also mark his coffee jar after every cup to try and discern if Ian had touched them. A couple times a day, he made accusations and wanted to fight.

“I don’t care if you drink my coffee, but you don’t have a TV?”

“I just read.”

A TV is a window on the world.

“I don’t share my TV. If we’re compatible, I’ll find you one.”

“That’s okay.”

I suspected Ian didn’t believe me. Why would he?

I told him no alcohol, no drugs, and on Monday gave the go ahead to the guard and went to work.

Eleven hours later, I trudged home exhausted and covered in fabric fibers from sewing. As I waved to the Control Booth Officer to unlock my cell door, Ian put down his book, got off his bunk and came to the door.

“How was work?”

“Fine. I’m going right back out,” I clued Ian, as I continued to wave at the Control Booth to unlock the door.

The door popped open, and I turned to dart into the cell to grab my hygiene bag and towel, so I could run to the shower, but Ian was standing square in the doorway blocking my way.

“I’m going in and out.”

Ian nodded but didn’t move.

Finally, I said sharply, “Excuse me,” shouldered him aside and snatched my bag. Too late! The six showers were full of other returning sewing workers.

Dead last in line, I waited and waited while internally raging at Ian. All I wanted was to shower and lie down.

Finally, I got wet and cooled. While soaping, it occurred to me I hadn’t said a thing to Ian about running for a shower. I had spoken in prison vernacular, and it wasn’t Ian’s fault that he was brand new and failed to break the code.

Entering the cell, I hung up my clothes, and asked Ian, “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure,” he answered warily.

“In prison, we avoid telling each other what to do because it’s considered disrespectful.”

“Okay.”

“When I tell you I’m going right back out, I’m telling you I’m in a hurry and want you out of my way. Just go on your bunk, and I’ll go right out in just a second.”

“Oh. I get it. Mike, just tell me. I won’t think you’re being disrespectful.”

“I will.” I relaxed. “The thing is you won’t always be living with me. You need to understand prison phrases. Every aspect of life has its own vocabulary: sports, engineering, military, business, law enforcement. Ninety percent of fitting in anywhere is knowing the vocabulary.”

Schooling had begun.

Truthfully, living with someone from a similar suburban background was refreshing, so after a few days I went in search of a TV.

Paroling prisoners frequently sell their TV’s. It’s against the rules, but guards mostly ignore the infraction. A prisoner watching TV isn’t causing problems. TV sets not on a prisoner’s hard card are called floaters. Every eighteen months or so, comprehensive searches of each facility are conducted. That’s when floaters are found and confiscated.

I put out the word I wanted a floater, generally they sell for fifty to one hundred dollars depending on the model and condition.

Marty, a seventy-something year old friend employed with me in the sewing factory who had done multiple terms in state and federal prison, was replacing his thirteenth inch set with a fifteen inch.

“Nothing wrong with it. You can have it no charge. Just don’t want any issues with the property officer.”

I spoke to the housing unit officer who had asked me to cell with Ian. My plan was to get him to write a confiscation receipt for Marty’s TV, so Marty could turn in the receipt to the property officer when he received his new TV and then pass on the old set to Ian.

“No. I don’t want Dugan to have a floater. He’ll lose it in a search sooner or later. I’ll call the property officer and ask him to let you make a case for the TV.”

I went and explained to the property officer what I wanted, he checked Ian’s property card and noted he didn’t have a radio or any other appliance and said okay.

Days later, Marty was ducated for his new TV, and I told Ian to see the property officer.

Returning from work, no TV. Ian said he saw the property officer, but didn’t receive anything.

Puzzled, I left work midmorning the next day and went to see the property officer.

“Was that your cellie? He handed me his ID, I checked and said nothing had come in for him.”

“Didn’t he tell you he was here for Matty’s set?”

“Really didn’t say a word. Handed me his ID and left when I told him nothing was here.”

What the hell, Ian?!

“Can he get the set?”

“It’s gone.”

Shrugging, I said, “Thanks anyway,” and started back to work.

“Hunter,” I turned back. “I’ll find him a set. Have him see me tomorrow.”

“Appreciate your help.”

He waved me away.

That night, schooling. 

“I get your laid-back Type-B personality, Ian. Makes you a cool guy to have around. Tomorrow, it’s Type-A time. Clearly communicate you are my cellie. You are there for a TV.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If he doesn’t have a TV, say thanks for trying. He’s busy, so don’t linger.  I’ll find a floater and I think he’ll put it on your hard card if you leave him in a good way.”

The good news: Ian received a TV the next day. The officer engraved Ian’s name and ID and placed it on his hard card.

The bad news: Turned out, Ian’s a Philadelphia Eagles fan. As a follower of the beloved San Francisco Forty Niners, it pained me to hear Ian yelling, “Fly Eagles Fly!” At least he wasn’t a Cowboy or Rams fan.

Ian didn’t have a job when he moved in, but drawing provided an income. Not the ever-present prison cards, Ian did meticulous portraits. Perfectionist, he would tear up drawings that looked fine to me, but didn’t meet his standard. 

Ian told me his grandfather had been a Chicago mobster who had spent considerable time in federal prison.

Ian had been a teamster, not a truckdriver, but a warehouseman. The pay/benefits were good, he had used the health care plan to go to drug rehab multiple times emerging each time with a new girlfriend he met there. His last girlfriend had slowly moved in one family member after another until Ian awoke to the reality, he was the sole support of a gaggle for which he had no affection. Off to work, he never returned.

Ian claimed multiple exemptions to avoid withholding and failed to file or pay taxes. When he inevitably received an IRS notice, he wrote “Deceased” on the envelope and “Return To Sender” and then quickly moved to a new address.

Eventually, Ian moved in with his drug dealer. Good times til he stopped going to work and his money ran out.

Living on the streets for a while, Ian charmed a social worker and moved in with her briefly until the teamsters found him a new job.

I don’t know why Ian was in prison. I don’t care unless cellmates turn up on Dateline or To Catch a Predator. Ian was not a lifer but was sentenced to decades.

In custody, Ian traded drug addiction for poker addiction. When he lost, he paid. When he won, they didn’t want to pay him. Drama!

Irish-Catholic, he spoke of going to church but didn’t attend. Sensing he was hesitant to go alone, I went with him for a about a year before returning to my Protestant services.

Finally, Ian was hired to sew California fire, transportation, and prison garments with me in the one hundred fifty-man factory, his sewing was as precise as his drawings.

“I knew Ian’s grandfather in federal prison,” Marty told me.

“What?” I had neither believed nor disbelieved Ian’s claim.

“Chicago mob boss. Powerful.”

The wages for sewing were good for prison. True to my Scots heritage, I only spent about a third of my wages at Canteen and saved the rest on my prison trust fund.

Irish Ian spent every dime.

Ian’s a grasshopper, and I’m an ant.

After a few years, Ian’s counselor told him he was up for transfer.

“You’re valuable in the sewing factory,” I advised. “Talk to the Superintendent, he’ll write you a critical worker letter. Take it to committee, the captain will keep you.”

“I’ll be okay,” Ian said in his Type-B easy way. “She said I’d probably stay here.”

“She’s rocking you to sleep! She has a quota. Get the letter or pack for the bus.”

“I don’t want to make her mad.”

“This is a numbers game. She won’t be mad; she’ll just go to the next guy up for an Annual Review and ship him.”

Ian thought he’d be fine and kicked back, which is his superpower.

Days not weeks later, Ian packed and got on the Soledad bus. I gave him the contact info for a woman friend; she’d forward his letters.

When my annual review was scheduled, I went straight to the Superintendent and brought the critical worker letter to committee. The captain killed the transfer.

Letters came from Ian from time to time; he seemed disengaged and lost. I worried.

After a few years, Ian wrote and said the TV had finally died. Naturally, he was without funds and asked for a new one. My woman friend offered to pay for half, so we contacted him to find out what TV he wanted. Ian wrote he’d found a floater and was fine. Guess, he learned something from me.

When covid hit, prisoners were eligible for stimulus funds, and I received a cheque.

Ian filed, but his failure to pay his taxes came back to haunt him. The IRS took the money to partially pay his back taxes.

Eventually, the State of California issued all prisoners electronic tablets. My woman friend was on both of our messaging apps making it easier to communicate.

I received a message from Ian; he was in the prison infirmary after knee replacement surgery. He was in a lot of pain and predictably was without funds and asked for twenty dollars.

I filled out the paperwork to send my woman friend fifty dollars to forward to Ian. Before my cheque got to her, my friend immediately electronically transferred fifty dollars to Ian’s prison trust account so he could order from the Canteen right away.

Prison is about making it day to day in adverse situations, and you count on relationships to see you through. I’m grateful we were able to assist an in-pain Ian, trapped in the infirmary, an unfamiliar, probably indifferent place.

-The End-